


cappuccino, please

by cicadas



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Idiots in Love, M/M, Smile Era, brian is doing his best, roger’s distinct lack of subtlety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2020-02-08 18:06:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18628489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cicadas/pseuds/cicadas
Summary: “What?” Roger asks, leaning minutely forward to knock Brian’s knee with his own.Brian shakes his head, gesturing to his own jumper that is currently covering Roger's upper half, “Nothing. You look nice in it.”“Oh,” Roger says, and he relaxes his shoulders, “Took you long enough to notice.”





	cappuccino, please

**Author's Note:**

> Brian and Roger’s birthdays are a week apart and if that isn’t sweet as heck, I’ll eat my own shoe.

“Ready to order, lads?”

“Oh, yes, erm—I’ll have a cup of tea, please.”

 

The waitress holds her pen over the paper, ready to write, and Roger rolls his eyes.

“You don’t go out to a café and order a cup of tea, Brian,” He informs his friend, “Pick something else.”

Brian looks down at the drinks list he barely skimmed over.

Mocha, macchiato, smoothie, ice water - which is apparently its own type of water and therefore gets its own listing.

“He’ll have a cappuccino. Two, actually.”

Brian kicks Roger under the table.

“Please.”

The waitress notes down their order, slips her pad in the pocket of her apron, and whisks away.

Brian turns to Roger, who’s currently folding the corner of his menu. Brian smacks his hand away, and he retreats them to his lap, slumping in his seat like a bored child.

“Why couldn’t we have ordered food again?”

“Because it’s expensive. Why couldn’t I have ordered a cup of tea?”

Roger straightens up. “Because it’s an old man drink, and you’re not having an old man drink on our date.”

Brian squints. “This isn’t a date.”

Roger’s hands leave his lap and start to fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers.

“We can pretend it is - makes it more fun.”

“And cappuccinos are required for fun?”

“They’re required for foam reasons. Plus, it’s fun to say, so, there’s the fun part.” Roger rocks the salt a little too much, and it slips under his fingers, dropping on its side with a clinking noise and a spray of salt.

Brian sweeps it away.

“So, will I have to drink coffee on all our future dates, too?”

Roger hums.

“Depends how well you woo me on this one.” He licks his finger and presses it into a few stray grains. “Do you think people ever slip drugs into salt shakers?”

“I don’t think so, no.”

Roger swirls his tongue around his fingertip, a rather over the top gesture for such a little amount of salt, and Brian blinks away, blushing.

“Well, they should. Whole new range of people to drug.”

“Are you encouraging a crime, Roger?”

“No!” Roger says, bobbling his head at Brian in the way he does when he’s trying to mimic him - oft used to make fun of him. “Merely brainstorming.”

“You can’t brainstorm about productive things?”

Roger states at him. “Brian, that’s an old man thing to say. I won’t have it while we’re out - actually out - in a place that charges for water. C’mon, you think of something.”

“Think of a way to drug people?” Brian looks around at the surrounding tables, but no-one is looking their way.

Roger sees him do it, and he grins. “Worried the MI5 will be after you?”

“Shove it.”

“Nah." He toes Brian's shoe under the table. "Tell me about something."

Brian kicks Roger's foot away from his own. It comes right back to rest atop his sneaker - he lets it be.

"Like what?"

Roger purses his lips. "Tell me about your course."

Brian can't help his brows raising at the request. "You want to hear about my course?"

Roger nods. "Yeah, that couple over there are doing some pretty intense talking-and-listening. Their date is going better than ours, and I wanna beat them."

"Oh, so you don't actually want to hear about it."

Roger rolls his eyes. "I do. But I'm also going to out-listen that bird and therefore one-up her."

"You've willingly put yourself in the girls' role?"

Brian feels Roger's toe nudge at his ankle.

"No. I'm in my own role. Now shut up and talk."

"That's a bit of a paradox, Rog."

Roger kicks him this time, and Brian laughs. "Alright, alright. I give up. What do you wanna hear about?"

"Whatever is the most interesting."

Brian nods. Of course. "Well, there's the astronomy part of the course, which is my favourite at the moment. The actual act of studying the planets and how it all came about, rather than learning the minutiae of each particle there is out there."

"That's the astrophysics part?" Roger asks, leaning in a little.

Brian takes in his face - how his eyes are focused rather than darting around at every little thing to distract himself, wide and keen and _interested?_

"Yeah," He says slowly. "Applying physics to astronomy in order to understand the movement of the planets and such."

Roger scoffs. "As such, he says. As if it isn't one of the most complicated courses out there."

"It's really not." Brian says.

Roger nudges his foot again, and it's almost like he's reached over to shake his arm the way people do when teasing. But this way it's hidden—subtle things like this have to be thought of when one sits at a café with their best mate, who is also a bloke, at a table for two.

"Go on, rub in how much of a boy wonder you are. You'll have your own house on Mars in a few years and I'll be stuck here, drinking coffee by myself." Roger says, and smiles - the smile with his lips pressed together and eyes scrunched up so soft lines appear at his temples.

Brian feels himself go shy at the compliment, but it's also only Roger, so he brushes it off.

"I'd take you with me."

"All the way to Mars? You'd be sick of me an hour into the trip."

"You can have a seperate ship."

"And when we get there?"

Brian ponders it a moment. "Seperate house, too."

Roger fakes a pout. "You don't want me as a housemate? We could share a bed."

"God no." Brian says, and he laughs. Roger laughs with him.

Their waitress returns with a tray holding two short mugs, and she sets them down with a polite smile. Brian gives her a nod of acknowledgement before looking back to Roger. He's got his face down at his mug already, sticking his tongue into the foam.

Brian shakes his head. "Can't use a spoon?"

Roger looks up, grinning. He has foam on his chin. "Wasn't taught as a child. It's why I'm always hitting things with sticks - I just don't know how they work, Bri. It's a travesty. Nearly twenty one and doesn't know how to use a spoon."

Brian swirls the foam of his own drink with the small teaspoon resting on the saucer ad brings it to his lips. "You're an idiot."

Roger's grin widens. "I know. It's a travesty."

"You said that before."

"Good word, innit?"

Brian hums around the spoon in his mouth.

Roger's gaze darts over to the couple by the window - the girl is clutching her date's hand, taking little bites of her meal as she nods along at whatever he's saying. Brian feels Roger's toe press harder into his foot.

"Ouch, Rog." He scolds when he pinches a nerve. He kicks out, and Roger retreats, not looking too sorry.

Roger lifts his drink and sips at it.

Brian watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. It's rather sharp, he thinks, jutting out of his slender neck as if Roger's own biology is trying to tell onlookers that yes, he is a male, don't let the hair and the voice fool you.

Not that Roger's behaviour is at all feminine. He has a mean walk and an attitude to go with it. Brian's iced bruised knuckles and cheekbones more than once when Roger's tried to prove it. He doesn't need to, though. Brian tells him every time. He's fine the way he is - it's the others that need to change.

Each time, Roger scoffs, calls him a hopeful, naïve sap, says he's fine standing out, then lets him tend to his injuries. In that order, usually.

Roger sets his mug back down on its saucer, and Brian notices the dot of foam is still on his chin.

He reaches out to wipe it off with his thumb, then stops, arm hovering in the air. He pulls it back to him, watching Roger's head tilt to the side in confusion.

"You've got something there." He says, motioning to his own face.

Roger brows raise in understanding, and he wipes at his face with the sleeve of his jumper. It's actually Brian's - one he lent him when he stayed late one night and the heat wasn't quite cutting it against the cold. It's been a few weeks since then, but Roger hasn't indicated any rush to give it back. Brian's not sure he even realises he's wearing it right now - just another item of clothing in his repertoire, filed under 'warm' and 'comfortable' and 'blue'. It's a little long in the arms and the hem sits just past his hips, so it makes him look smaller than he is.

It's kind of cute, really. Brian imagines the hood over his head, cord pulled tight so his face is snugly surrounded by the navy blue fabric, rugged up like a baby in a snowsuit.

"What're you smiling at?" Roger cuts the tie between him and his drifting thoughts, and Brian meets his eyes, a blush tingling at his cheeks.

"Sorry. Were you saying something?"

Roger shakes his head. "Nah, just looking at you look at me. What were you thinking about?"

Brian bites his lip. "Nothing much."

Roger groans. "Nah, come on. You're going pink," He motions to his face, pinching his own cheekbones, "Right here."

Brian wants to kick Roger for stubborn he knows he is - in everything. Absolutely every facet of his being is drenched in it, and Brian sometimes questions how he gets anything done. He wonders how his conversations ever get anywhere. Or maybe it only appears with Brian, rearing its head to snag as many details as he can out of the man. That, or he isn't stubborn at all; Brian may just give way too easily.

He agrees with himself on the last thought, and Roger's mouth curls into a satisfied smile when he begins to speak. "You're wearing my jumper."

Roger looks down as if he's forgotten what he's got on. "Oh, it appears I am." He says, but his tone is far too surprised to be true.

Brian rolls his eyes. "You wore that on purpose, didn't you? Knowing you'd be meeting with me."

Roger grins. "This is a date. I'm being cute."

Roger raises his cup to drink again, and Brian is suddenly made aware he has his own sitting in front of him he's barely touched. He leaves the statement there, unanswered, and lifts his cappuccino to his lips.

-

His birthday arrives sooner than he’s prepared for. Nineteenth of July: a month and two days apart from the Summer solstice. By itself, a rather unimportant date.

Brian attends uni, starts his assessments in the library on his lunch hour, and drinks a cup of tea in the adjoining café in the last half hour of opening.

The place shuts, he packs up, and heads home.

A nice, normal, uneventful day.

 

He’s immediately accosted by a fit of blond hair when he walks in the door.

Keys in hand, Brian tries not to lash out and scratch - Roger? Yeah, that’s definitely Roger - scrabbling his arms up Brian’s back.

He starts, instinctually choosing flight out of his reading fight of flight mode, his brain ignoring the fact that his eyes have recognised his ‘attacker’ already.

Brian feels something pull over his hair, and he looks down at Roger, who’s grinning.

“Happy birthday, old man. You want a cup of tea now?”

Brian pulls something off his chest that wasn’t there before. It’s looped around him - a stretch of ratty yellow fabric that looks suspiciously like a torn-up tea towel. There are a few black marks across it which look like—

Roger snatches the sash out of his hands. “It says Olde Briane.”

Brian looks up at him.

“With an e?”

He still has his keys held up and his satchel hanging heavy with many textbooks stashed inside. Roger slips his finger under the strap and tugs, and the bag falls to the floor with a ‘thud’.

“Yes, with an e. Now come inside, I have your gift.”

Roger bounds off toward the kitchenette, and Brian looks dumbly down at his bag, opened and books spilled out onto the carpet. He’ll clean them now to save himself from doing it later, he decides, then bends down to sort his things out.

Roger’s voice calls out from across the flat.

“Would you like tea?”

Brian doesn’t have to think before answering, “Yes, please.”

He tucks the last textbook back in his bag and heaves it onto the coffee table.

When he looks up - properly taking in his home, which Roger has invited himself into - he notices there are two bits of paper tacked to the wall above the couch. He leans in to read them.

‘Happy Birthday’ is drawn in neat block letters on one page, along with some balloons, and ‘Briane’ on the next, taking up the whole page. Spelled with an E, surely enough.

Brian points to it, turning to face Roger. “Reason for the spelling?”

Roger keeps his back to him as he fiddles with the knobs of Brian’s stove - not a full oven like he’s used to, living with his mate Freddie. Brian moves away from the poster - well, ‘poster’ - in order to knock Roger’s hand away. He presses down on the dodgy thing, turns it clockwise, and motions for Roger to click the lighter. The burner goes up, and Roger moves the lighter away. Brian keeps the gas held down for a bit longer, knowing it’ll cut out if he lets go too soon - he counts to four-and-a-half-five, then lets go. The flame stays.

“It’s the traditional spelling.” Roger says.

“My name is already spelled in the traditional spelling.”

Roger rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but now it’s the traditional version people used back in the dark ages, where you were born.”

Brian frowns. “Rog, what?”

“I’m trying to make fun of you. Just shush and don’t make it boring.” He smacks Brian’s back, and his fingers get caught in his makeshift sash. It reminds Brian.

“Did you make this out of one of my tea towels?” He asks.

Roger snorts. “Yeah, it was hilarious - I used your knife trying to make this cake here, right, but then I realised you don’t have an oven, so I was trying to figure out how to cook it on a stove, which you can’t.”

Brian raises his eyebrows. “And...?”

“And then I had to wash the knife anyway and I faced it the wrong way while drying it and cut the fucking thing in half. Completely by accident. But you got a sash out of it, and yellow patchwork is ugly, so it’s really a win if you look at it from my point of view.” He says, and he’s smiling, but Brian can see that hint of uncertainty in his eyes he always hides with a laugh, or an outburst.

Brian bumps him with his shoulder, leaning down to do so, and tells him it’s fine. That seems to be enough for Roger.

He pulls away with a deep breath in. “Go sit in the lounge?” He asks, twirling round so he can lean against the bench top. “And no fiddling with your schoolbooks! They’re contrite and useless right now.”

Brian goes where he’s told.

His textbooks stare at him from the opening of his bag. Contrite? No.

He puts them under the table anyway.

A few minutes later, Roger balances two cups of tea on something flat and wrapped in newspaper.

He sets all of it down very gently onto the table, taking the mugs off the covered rectangle and placing one down in front of Brian. He motions for him to drink.

“Right. So, this is your gift from me. There’s no cake or anything, cause I really did try to make one, but it went tits up as soon as Fred got involved, and I didn’t have time to get more ingredients before coming over here.” Roger explains.

Brian watches his face, and notes there are a few nerves spotted under the excitement. He reaches over to pinch his knee, rocking it a little. “It’s perfect, Rog. You turned the heat on and everything.”

Roger’s eyes narrow, then widen, and he grins. “I did, didn’t I? I’m such a great friend.”

“The best friend.” Brian agrees, and he means it wholeheartedly.

Roger’s smile slips a little.

He motions to the newspaper-ed thing on the table. “Well, go on then.” He says, and his smile returns when Brian reaches for it.

His eyes are their usual droopy blue, but they’re also far more expressive than usual. Brian thinks back to his mental schedule he uses to keep track of Roger, but can’t quite remember if he had any classes today. He knows they cut out to go on break very soon. Or is that in a few weeks? Either way, he seems tired. He might offer to drive him home at the end of the night.

He makes a mental note of it.

Beside him, Roger begins to fidget, so Brian gets on with tearing the makeshift wrapping paper.

His finger runs along something hard, and he peeks in the gap he’s made.

White, stacked together pages look back at him.

He turns to Roger. “A book? You were just making fun of—”

Roger taps the cover, cutting him off. “Just keep going.”

Brian nods his head side to side, an ‘okay, alright’ notion that has Roger watching him excitedly. He tries not to flick his eyes across to his friend’s eager face lest he get distracted— or caught.

He slips his pointer finger under the tear in the wrapping and tenses, using his finger as a hook to rip the paper up and in half. He slides the book out of the gap, and turns it over in his hands to read the cover.

It’s a hardcover, deep green with gold writing - most likely a major selling point for Roger - and ridges in the spine. It’s a nice book.

Then he reads the title.

 _Galileo_ _Galilei_ \- _Father_ _of_ _Modern_ _Science_ \- _First_ _Astronomers_ , _Issue_ _One_.

Roger looks up at him, biting his lip. “It’s the first in a set.” He says. “Lady at the store said when they bring out the next ones, the ridges here will match up and make some kind of pattern. Not sure what it is yet.”

Brian opens the cover - no crackling, no old smell, no wrinkling of the pages as they part for the first time in years. This is a brand new book.

Which means Roger’s payed full price for it.

He looks at his friend - at the bottom lip bitten between Roger’s teeth he wishes he wouldn’t worry so much - and at the open, waiting expression on his face.

Brian smiles, and Roger copies him.

“So you like it?” He asks hopefully.

Brian nods. His fingers run along the false, thin leather they often spread across the card wood of books like these. It’s smooth and cold on his calluses. “I love it. Don’t tell me you spent all your savings on me again, though.”

Roger shakes his head, but he doesn’t say no.

“Rog?”

“I wanted to get you something nice! And this is something I know you wouldn’t have yet, and something you’re interested in.”

Brian cocks his head. “For school?”

Roger shakes his head. “For you. Your favourite part of what you’re learning is astronomy, right? So I found out this guy discovered four of the major moons of that big planet, Jupiter, but he also was one of the first to apply physics and science in order to do so.”

Brian feels his mouth slacken just enough to have him making a dumb face. He’s...he’s taken aback, but he’s also so, so warmed hearing it from someone who has described how ‘shit’ any science is part intermediate level and that they should have a textbook with layman's terms to translate - all this coming from a biology major.

Roger starts to smile at him. Brian snaps his mouth shut.

“I do listen, you know. When you speak.”

There’s a hint of something behind his words - something that doesn’t fit with his gentle eyes and smug smile - but Brian can’t quite place it, and Roger is speaking again before he has a chance to really think.

“But I did read the introduction, so don’t think I’m listening to every bit of planetary dribble you like to spout after your classes.” He finishes.

Roger picks up his teacup. Brian sets down his book.

 _His_ book, that Roger gave him because he knows he likes studying planets the best, and he’s talked about the inventors and polymaths from Italy before, even if Roger doesn’t remember, he’s retained the information.

"Doesn't matter," He says, "I love it anyway."

Roger smiles, and Brian knows if he had changed the pronoun in his sentence, it would still be true.

-

Brian takes Roger out to that same café when his birthday rolls around a week later.

He hands their paper menus to the waiting hand of the waitress. "Two cappuccinos, please."

She notes it down, same as before - surprisingly the same woman, too - and leaves them to their table. They're in a booth this time, with rather low seats so Brian can see past Roger's head to the people behind them, and Roger can probably do the same to him, if he can see past his hair.

Roger kicks his foot under the table. Brian doesn't move it, allowing him to rest his scuffed sneaker on his clog. They're nice ones - new, white, same as usual - he bought with birthday money from his mum. She was going to visit him, but her and dad are in Leeds, and the commute up and back without a borrowed car wouldn't have given them much time together.

"It's fine," Brian told her over the phone. "I've got Rog here. He warmed up my flat for me."

His mum cooed over Roger, like she always does when Brian highlights all the good stuff he's done - making sure to leave out the times he stumbles in drunk, thinking he's gone to his own place, or when he had an argument with Freddie and punched their fridge, causing them to be nearly kicked out as they don't own the appliance. It took him quite a while to pay that back. No, she doesn't need to hear about that. Roger is an angel in her eyes, and that's how it'll stay.

Brian looks up from his lap, where his gaze has wandered down to, focusing on absolutely nothing at all, and meets Roger's bright eyes.

He seems to have brushed up a bit for their tea - well, 'cappuccinos' - as his hair definitely wasn't looking this silky when he saw him before uni, reminding him he'd see him later on.

His blond hair falls in layers of their own, thick enough not to frizz, and a fringe cut zig-zagged across his forehead that is a little too sparse to try and hide in the majority of his hair. It’s the result of an ex-girlfriend’s brief foray into hairdressing a week before they broke up, and the reason Roger’s decided to grow his hair out with a vow to have only - at least cert III - qualified people touch it.

He’s wearing Brian’s jumper - a different one this time, navy blue polar fleece with a little animal logo on the right shoulder. It has a collar that comes up just a little on his neck, the zipper pulled all the way, ringlet dangling over where his Adam’s apple would be showing. It makes the rest of his face look brighter, being so rugged up. Pink cheeks and pale, creamy skin with the leftover acne scars of his teenage years still fading around his chin and forehead.

He blinks, and his eyelashes fan down over his cheeks, then up against his eyebrows - long enough to reach, and thick enough to frame his eyes without mascara.

Brian wonders what he’d look like with mascara, lashes longer and thicker and darker, blinking prettily as he speaks.

Roger’s eyebrows raise at him, and he drops his gaze back to his drowsy, deep-set eyes.

His skin crinkles at the corners as his face turns up into a smile. “Did I distract you again, Bri?” He waggles his eyebrows, and Brian flings his napkin at him.

“No. I was thinking about something else.” He says, not wanting to admit he was...Well, admiring Roger, if he’s perfectly honest.

It’ll only embarrass him and boost Roger’s ego.

“You know you’re pretty anyways,” Brian reasons. Then realised he’s spoken out loud.

Roger just winks at him, like it’s the simplest thing, and nods his head. “Yeah, I do.” He says, and breaks his gaze to look at the people behind them.

“They’ve got their food before us!” He balks, beginning to point an accusatory finger their way. “We were here before them. I saw them come in.”

Brian pulls Roger’s hand back down to the table, and for a moment, he has that gesture he’s been missing out on - two hands clasped over the table top, a casual, special thing. Then he lets go, and Roger brings his hand ring back up to point out the aforementioned couple.

“You see? You see, Brian?!” He says, sounding outraged but grinning through it. “Fucking quiche and side salad. We should’ve ordered that.”

Brian shakes his head, and wonders where his napkin has gone; his cutlery, which he grabbed from the bucket at the register before remembering he won’t be eating, sits bare on the table, which he doesn’t think is too sanitary.

Roger bangs his fist on the table, and he remembers his napkin - he tossed it at Roger for being a nonce.

He wishes he had another one to do it again, because he doesn’t fancy starting a war with Roger over throwing cutlery. Knowing Rog, it’ll end with one of them with puncture wounds and the both of them getting kicked out. And he really likes the coffee here.

“Roger, staff is a little slow, it’s fine. Stop—Stop pointing at them, they’re going to see!” Brian smacks him aside the shoulder, and Roger giggles. “It’s not funny!”

“It _is_ funny, though. You being all nervous is funny.” He says, biting his tongue between his teeth.

If fae existed in the world, Brian would have no doubt Roger is one. One that exists purely to mismatch decor, poke people in the ears, steal money left out for the tooth fairy, and annoy anybody who got their order in before him at a restaurant - or a café.

He’s got the nose for it, Brian thinks. It even wiggles when he talks - something he’s never, ever mentioned to Roger for fear he’d get shy and defensive about it and stop speaking altogether. He wonders if his need to speak constantly would trump his need to only be seen in a way he approves of.

Hence the growing-out of the hair. The jumper is questionable, though.

Brian bites the inside of his cheek, and magically, catches sight of their waitress rounding the tables to get to their booth, black tray and two mugs placed atop it.

Roger gives her an over-the-top “Cheers!” As she leaves. Jovial, sly on cheeky, but not rude.

He’s never been one to let mild annoyances hit him hard enough to actually be rude to someone serving him. Brian’s sure he’s even eaten cold food once simply because he knew there was only one person working the night shift, and he didn’t want to stress them out by calling them over to complain his wedges hadn’t been heated properly.

Its one of the things he loves about him.

Roger meets Brian’s wandering eyes, and he smiles. “Cheers?”

Brian returns it. The milky foam of his drink spills over he edge when he clinks it against Roger’s, and they sip.

“Do you feel old yet?” He asks, licking foam off his top lip.

Roger laughs. “Younger than you. How did it feel hanging around a twenty-year-old after turning twenty-three? Did you feel louse and destitute?”

“Destitute—Roger, where have you been getting all these words?”

“I went to secondary school!” Roger says, face in an ‘O’ of ‘how dare you’. “Also, Freddie’s been dating this guy who brings out all these tremendously long words for no reason. It’s superfluous, really.” Roger says, and grins.

“You see what I—”

“Yes, I see what you did there.” Brian says, nodding. “You used that on him yet?”

“Nah,” Roger says, and relaxes back against his seat, clutching his hands contentedly over his chest. “I don’t think he’d know what it means. My genius is lost on most people.”

Brian tuts. “And here you were a few weeks ago, trying to convince me you weren’t that smart.”

Roger waggles a finger at him, still joined with his others. “Ah, I never said that. I just said you’re a genius. Also. As well as me.” He pulls his mug to him, and Brian’s about to admonish him for drinking so far away from the table when he sloshes some out onto his jumper.

Brian’s jumper, actually, which he doesn’t ever recall lending Roger now that he thinks about it.

Roger uses Brian’s napkin to dab at his front, and hands it to Brian when he’s done - as if he’s got a bin handy beside him to toss it into.

“Rog, where did you get that jumper?” He asks, gesturing to it and the wet patch under the zipper.

Roger shrugs. “Nicked it out your cupboard when I came over to make that cake. Takes ages for your heat to kick in, d’you know?”

Brian hums in agreeance. “It does.”

“Did you not want me to...?” Roger trails off, tugging at the neck.

Brian shakes his head, waving him off.

“I don’t mind. It looks nice on you.” He says, and frowns when Roger gives him a smug look. “What?”

Roger pushes away from the back of the chair with a grunt - the man on the seat behind him gives them an over-the-shoulder look, but Roger pays him no mind. “Is that cause it’s yours?”

“No,” Brian says, then he thinks about it. “Actually, yes.”

Roger grins. “Knew it.”

“What? Has this been some ongoing experiment I haven’t known about?” Brian asks, eyebrow raised as he sips his drink. A strand of hair gets in the foam on the side and he brushes it away, eyes on Roger.

“Yeah, it has.” He says.

Brian pauses. “What?”

“God, Bri, you’d think you’ve forgotten how to communicate. Where’s all your eloquent speech gone?” Roger teases, flicking his elbow where it rests on the table. “It’s day six, now.”

“Of...”

“Wearing something of yours when I see you. At first I just forgot it wasn’t mine, then I thought I’d make a game of it - to see how long it’d take you to notice.” Roger explains.

He ducks his head, and his smile turns from smug to sheepish. “I, uh...remembered you saying once you like seeing people wear your clothing.”

Brian’s eyes narrow. “People?”

Roger coughs, and it’s the cutest embarrassed mannerism Brian’s seen from him, ever.

“Girlfriends.” Roger amends, and if Brian isn’t mistaken, that’s the tiniest hint of a blush creeping up under the fleece collar of his jumper. He wonders how warm Roger is right now.

Part of him - the larger, smarter, less oblivious part - knows it’s not being caused by too many layers. He moves his eyes up to Roger’s own, and they’re big and darting between Brian’s left and right, waiting for an answer.

“Oh.” Is all Brian says.

Then he figures he should make a joke, because that’s what Roger would do in this situation.

“Are you trying to be my girlfriend, Rog?” He asks, and adds a chuckle to the end.

Roger just screws his lips up in the corner of his mouth. “Not exactly.” He says, and Brian’s about to go for another joke when he adds, “Not your  _girlfriend_ , anyway.”

It turns his witty response to another “Oh” right as it leaves his mouth.

It’s then that he realises he actually wouldn’t mind it.

The very thought has Brian’s brain unspooling in his head, and he’s just as shocked that he feels good about it. This lost, warm, hopeful feeling swelling in his chest, overtaking any proper thought - thoughts he’s spent years educating and honing into precise, useful things - and leaving him feeling giddy and a little dumb.

He’s been out with Roger how many times, with him calling it a date and Brian offering to pay for them both, and he hasn’t seen what he’s been a part of?

They’re in public, so he can’t exactly ask Roger if he’s saying what he thinks he’s saying, so he does the only thing he can think of: he reaches his foot out under the table, and nudges Roger’s ankle.

There’s a moment of stillness, then Roger tilts his toe up and slides it onto Brian’s shoe.

His eyes flick up to Brian’s, and they’re a little flighty, but they stay on his. Big and blue and beautiful.

 

“Yeah?” Brian asks.

Roger presses his foot down.

“Yeah.” He confirms.

 

Brian watches a smile dance around his lips before eventually taking hold, and it creeps onto Roger’s whole face, lighting up his cheeks and crinkling his eyes and pinching his lips where he tries not to show his teeth.

His eyes wander down to the polar fleece covering his upper half, and he feels a dopey smile of his own spread across his face.

“What?” Roger asks, leaning minutely forward to knock Brian’s knee with his own.

Brian shakes his head. “Nothing. You look nice in it.”

“Oh,” Roger says, and he relaxes his shoulders, “Took you long enough to notice.”

Brian isn’t sure if he’s implying something more with it - he nods his head to agree anyway.

“Happy birthday, by the way, Rog.” He says, only remembering now he never said it when they met outside, and he passed him his gift to open up later, when they’ll be at the pub with more of his mates.

He hopes Roger still likes the same brand of whiskey - cheap and off-brand and just this side of too sweet.

From where he is now, sitting across him in a four-person turned two-person booth, Brian knows he’ll like it either way.

Roger presses down on his foot again.

It’s a thank you, and a reminder he’s there, and possibly something else he can’t say aloud, all rolled into one.

Brian bites the inside of his cheek. “Old man.”

Roger kicks him, and his resounding laugh has the couple behind them giving them a dirty look again, but Brian doesn’t care. They can get thrown out now.

He knows Roger’ll trail out after him, giggling and cursing out the entire establishment - by his side, all the way.

 

 

He grabs Roger’s hand after they’ve left - far enough away and down a back street no-one takes, deeming it safe enough to reach out and tangle their hands together.

Roger tucks his fingers in the gaps of Brian’s, then stashes them both in the pocket of Brian’s coat, out of sight.

It feels exciting, and daring, and at the same time, it feels like they’ve been doing it for years.

Brian isn’t sure which one he’d rather it be. He doesn’t think he cares; He’s got him now, stepping quicker than they usually do between two brick buildings, laughing at their stumbling feet and joined hands, meandering down London Town on their way home, like they’ve done a thousand times before.

”Happy Birthday,” Brian says again, because he feels like it.

Roger shoots him a smile - warm and tender and so bloody bright - and he repeats Brian’s words.

“Happy Birthday.”

It doesn’t even matter they’re a week apart. It’s his birthday, too. Besides, they share everything else - why not this? Brian feels foreign fingers tighten against his, pinching them together, and he knows this was inevitable, right from the start.

It only makes sense that they're seven days apart - the other 730 of the two years be damned.

 _Happy Birthday,_ Brian thinks to himself. He doesn't need to say it out loud again to get his point across. He squeezes Roger's hand, and he's squeezed back - he knows he's happy. Giggly. Content, if not a little slow. It's all he needs.

 

 


End file.
